


one more thing

by bramblecircuit



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, gratuitous depictions of touch, if you are really really sex-repulsed i advise you skip this one, jon has trauma re: asking questions, jon is ace though, jon is v touch-sensitive, jon is........rather needy isn't he, there is. a lot of staring, they talk about it a little, this fic kinda treads the line between asexuality and sex things(tm) so, tw: skin picking, very very minor injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22179883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bramblecircuit/pseuds/bramblecircuit
Summary: Martin kept his eyes firmly tilted to his hands. No use in letting him watch as he wiped away a few unruly tears. If he saw, Jon might start toworry. He might even feel he’d have tocomforthim, and, oh, then they’d be in a state. Jon would fumble it. He’d look into Martin’s despair and find he’d spent too much time away from the archives. He’d stutter his awkward, endearing stutter because the alternative was, well—That he would know exactly what to do.A confession.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 67
Kudos: 548





	one more thing

“Martin.”

Jon stood half in, half out of the door to the apartment. The room was dark, only a little light trickling in from the window. 

“What are you doing here, Jon?” Martin clasped his hands behind his back and set his face in a hard stare. Jon was ragged, the sleeves of his brown jacket dwarfing his arms, his face tired and unshaven. He pressed a hand against the doorframe and leaned into it, the dull pain shooting up his arm barely registering. 

“You seemed off when you left work. I wanted to—”

“To _what?_ Check in?” Martin almost spat the words. “You haven’t been one for keeping in touch.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I think we’re well past fair, aren’t we, you and I?” Martin tossed his pen carelessly on his desk, the clatter the only sound other than the space heater’s soft hum. “If you’re here, close the door. No use letting the warm air out.”

Jon looked back at the door handle. 

“Should I leave, or?”

“I don’t really care.”

But he did care. Of course he cared. It’s just that Jon always chose the worst moments to act on his loneliness, testing the waters to see if Martin was still his. 

Martin _was_ still his. It filled him with a heavy certainty, sweet as honey and irritating as a half-forgotten dream. It had all but replaced his blood by now, his heart stubbornly pumping each memory of their conversations, each stupid, dazzling fantasy. 

It was always easier to scare off the man in front of him than to put feelings into words.

“Look, I—” Jon pressed a hand to the back of his neck. He sighed, eyes closing with a weariness that couldn’t just be pretense. He took off his glasses and leaned against the wall. 

An image flashed, distinctly unbidden, of Jon asleep in his office chair, his body haphazardly folded over the desk. His scarred fingers tangled in his hair. 

“It’s just that so much has happened.”

Jon slumped to the floor. His glasses hung loosely from his limp fingers, and he pushed the straggling strands of hair back from his face with a gesture that aged him terribly.

Not daring to get any closer, Martin sat against the same wall, his gaze fixed on the amber light pooling from the window. 

“Yeah. And you haven’t—” He cut off the rest of the sentence, but the message was clear enough.

“I haven’t.” Martin’s heartbeat quickened at the regret in his voice. He flexed his fingers, the shout in his head that made him want to wrap Jon up in a hug turning his hands numb. 

Jon glanced at Martin from the corner of his eye. Not enough to really see him, but enough to press pause on the longing in his chest. There he was. Dressed simply, a white shirt poking out of his sweater. Tired, but who wouldn’t be?

Jon twirled his glasses. He was never good at trying to comfort someone—made him _itchy,_ like a bug bite on the inside of his skin he couldn’t reach. It was just him in the room with someone he cared for and a miasma he didn’t know how to banish. Best to leave the two alone, he usually thought. It wasn’t worth the effort.

Martin, though. He had a tendency to challenge Jon’s assumptions. 

It took a few false starts. He cleared his throat, shuffled himself on the floor to keep his legs from falling asleep. He snuck another glance at Martin and felt a lump rise in his throat at how much he’d curled in on himself. 

He took a breath, then another.

God, when did he get so cowardly?

“You looked worse than usual, and it frightened me.”

Jon leaned back against the wall. There. An effort. 

“Hm. Thanks.”

“No, I-I—"

“I thought I realized something.” He kept his voice bland, but he couldn’t help but turn to look at Jon, if only to see the way his face twisted under his hunger for information.

“Oh. Well, do you…do you want to talk—”

“No.” His response was flat, like a hand hitting a slab of wood. “I don’t.”

Martin kept his eyes firmly tilted to his hands. No use in letting him watch as he wiped away a few unruly tears. If he saw, Jon might start to _worry._ He might even feel he’d have to _comfort_ him, and, oh, then they’d be in a state. Jon would fumble it. He’d look into Martin’s despair and find he’d spent too much time away from the archives. He’d stutter his awkward, endearing stutter because the alternative was, well—

That he would know exactly what to do.

And then Martin—young, wounded, lovestruck Martin—would be completely lost.

“I—” Both of them started to speak at the same time. A fumble of “no, you”s and “I insist”s, then silence. They sat in their respective points on the same straight line, neither one quite daring to speak. 

“I worry about you too, you know.” Martin broke the silence, his hands folded together to stop the shaking. “I just stopped telling you ‘cause it never does any good.” 

Checking to make sure Martin wasn’t watching, Jon pulled his jacket more tightly around himself and put his hand over his heart. 

“The world’s still ending, you’re still in danger—at the end of the day, what’ve we changed?” The air in the room was distinctly gloomy, the light taking on an eerie, flame-like hue. “I want to do more. But I can’t, and then my worry becomes your worry, and, well. Here we are!” He gave a bitter laugh that tore into Jon’s chest. 

“I think about that a lot.”

“Which part?” Not the endless cycles of worry, he hoped. Or maybe he hoped Jon took some comfort in it—that at least one person, without fail, begged the universe to keep him safe. 

“The…never-ending sameness. Our collective lack of hope.” Jon pressed his hands to his temples, his glasses vulnerable on the floor. God, he was tired. He could almost fall asleep right there if it weren’t for the vague unease that crept through his body whenever he was near Martin but not close enough. He’d have to remember not to step on his glasses when he got up—replacing them would be a nightmare. It would be funny, though. An archivist without their eyes. Ha. 

“Ah!” A gasp of pain from the other side of the room.

He was up and at Martin’s side before he could finish his weak protest, his bleeding finger hanging from his mouth.

“It’s nothing,” he said, licking the wound. “Just a scab. I was picking at it. Oh, that’s more blood than I thought.” He brought his hand to his face to—was he really going to just swallow his own blood like that?

“Just—just tell me where you keep the bandages.” 

“Bathroom,” he said sheepishly. “Bottom cupboard to the left.”

“Bottom cupboard to the left,” Jon repeated to himself, flicking the light switch and wincing at its glare. He tried not to get too distracted by the fluffy blue towel hanging from the rung. What kind of soap did he use? What scent was his shampoo? He wanted to pour a little bit of each on his hands, but—no, no, _bandages._ Besides, Martin might notice and think he was weird.

“Pull it together, Archivist,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. He found them thrown together in a wrinkled plastic bag. The first one he grabbed had a kitten on it, the design made to look like little paws held the adhesive in place. 

“Find it alright?”

Jon raised the band aid.

“Kittens.” Martin reddened. 

“I _like_ kittens.” 

_I like that you like kittens,_ Jon thought to himself. He didn’t say anything as he wrapped the band-aid tenderly around the open wound. 

“There.” Jon stepped back.

“I won’t suppose you’d kiss it better?” Martin asked, the offhand comment painfully audible. He froze. So did Jon. 

God, he was so _stupid,_ wasn’t he? Sometimes the most asinine things just came tumbling out of his mouth, no care in the world, and it was his fault. He’d made Jon uncomfortable—he didn’t have to look at his face to know that any comfort between them was gone. Jon would be out of the door in a minute, if not less. He would—

Martin’s racing thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of Jon’s hand on his wrist. Slowly, his eyes cast down, Jon raised the wounded hand to his face and kissed the band-aid. 

“There.” His voice was soft, almost broken. 

He didn’t let go of Martin’s wrist. 

“Jon…”

“I was wondering how long it would take us.” 

“What d’you—”

“You know what I mean. This game we play. Pretending we’re mad at each other until we’re not. And then we say things that don’t make sense in the morning.”

The two of them stood together under the glare of the bathroom light, the bulb flickering slightly. 

“You’re holding my hand.”

“Your wrist, technically.”

“You’re holding me.”

“I am.” 

Martin studied the fingers looped around his wrist.

“Can I ask for you to hold me for real?”

Jon let go, and for another moment, Martin thought he had asked for too much. But then Jon led him to the couch, draping his jacket along its edge and dropping his glasses on the coffee table. He sat down and patted the space beside him.

Martin stood there for a moment, just looking. The rush there was, the warmth, _oh_ —to be able to look and not hide yourself in the act of looking. To let all your love bubble in your eyes without thought to the consequences. 

Martin looked at Jon, Jon looked at Martin, and the world continued to turn.

Jon bit his lip, the eye contact almost blistering in its intensity. Martin felt his breath catch. He was almost panting, looking at him, basking in the knowledge that the gap between them would be broken swiftly and without remorse. 

“Join me?”

“You don’t have to ask.” Martin slammed his glasses on the table and crawled as close as he could get without sitting in Jon’s lap. 

He let out a soft moan when his head was against Jon’s chest, his heartbeat audible. 

“There you are,” he said, the sentence as involuntary as the little shuffles he made, trying to feel as much contact with Jon as possible. “You’re right here. You’re…mmph.”

Jon looked at the top of his head, his hand hovering over the pale brown hair. He held his breath, watching the gentle rise and fall of Martin’s back until letting all his reservations go in a deep sigh. He dropped his hand into Martin’s hair, hardly daring to move his fingers. 

“Why do we do this to ourselves?” Martin’s question was muffled by Jon’s shirt. “I want to go to you all the time. I see you in your office, and I—I have to pull myself away or else I’ll…”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” Jon’s voice was weak.

“I can’t do that thing you do, Jon. I can’t keep it all in.” Martin wrapped his arms more securely around Jon and nestled himself closer. Jon tensed. Barely, just for a moment, but it was still there. “I need to tell you.”

A prickle of unease crept through the room, hot and bright. 

“You…understand I need to, right?”

“I—I think I do.”

Jon understood. He knew that he needed Martin’s honesty to fill him up just as much as Martin needed to put it down. He knew that this could be their turning point—sitting in Martin’s space and refusing to let him hide.

Jon pulled him imperceptibly closer. Martin had a tendency to like corners these days. And shadows. And locked doors.

Was it his fault?

“You could tell me, if you wanted.”

Martin took a deep, shuddering breath. He should’ve been born with a stronger heart. He’d be satisfied, then, with their erratic intimacy, the warm, crystalline moments the two of them stole for each other. As it was, the first time Jon had shown him any real tenderness, he’d just felt…lonely. Jon’s absence gorged itself on him until he was more void than person.

“I like to think about you when I can’t sleep.” He let the sentence hang in the air, willing himself to be content with that small confession.

“Do you want to tell me more?”

“I do.” 

“Tell me one more thing.” Jon pressed his chin gently on the top of Martin’s head and sighed, a shiver of reckless joy pulsing through him. 

“I think about how focused you look when you read.” 

“One more.” Martin laughed so shakily he barely made a sound.

“I think about holding your hand. I think about doing that thing, y’know, rubbing your thumb with mine. I think about touching your face.”

Jon tightened his arms around Martin’s shoulders, taking comfort in how both of them trembled.

“One more. Please.”

“I think about sleeping next to you. I think about you just being there, breathing. Proof that you’re okay.” 

Jon tried to say Martin’s name, but the weight of it choked him. _Martin._ A flame in his chest, a feather in his throat.

“I think about looking at you. That’s all. Just looking at your eyes, and your mouth when you talk, and how you move your hands when you’re excited. I think about walking behind you and not looking at the floor or the wall, but the back of your head. The way your shoulders move.”

Jon felt the warmth on his cheeks and realized he was crying. 

How foolish they’d both been, letting the end of the world get in the way. 

“I think about _making you tea_ —isn’t that ridiculous?” Martin let out a little self-conscious laugh. “Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night paralyzed with fear, and I calm myself down by thinking about setting a perfect cup of tea on your desk.”

“I’ve missed your tea.” 

“I-I think about—” He pressed his face against Jon’s chest. “I think about taking your hair…um…” He squeezed his eyes tighter. “Taking your hair out of the ponytail and…er…”

Without speaking, Jon guided Martin’s hand to his head. 

Martin was shaking almost too hard to get a grip. Was this allowed? Something bad was bound to happen any moment, some monster materializing in front of the window and spoiling their fun. Each second felt like an hour stolen from time itself. 

Even with all his planning, he was bound to get caught.

“Martin, whatever it is you were about to say…you can do it instead. I won’t mind.” 

_But will you_ like _it?_ Martin thought to himself.

“…yes, it’s likely that I will.”

Martin flushed as he realized he hadn’t quite kept the words inside his head. 

“It’s been a while,” Jon continued, shifting under the weight of his own embarrassment, “but I think I’d find it…nice.”

“Nice,” Martin repeated. “Well. Then I’ll just go ahead and…”

Martin gathered his courage and carefully pulled Jon’s hair free.

His hands trembling, he stroked the thick, tangled hair let loose in all its glory. “O-Oh, you’re—”

Jon closed his eyes and tilted his neck, pushing his head into Martin’s hands. His breathing grew deeper, and Martin might’ve thought he was asleep if not for the small noises of contentment he let out, the involuntary twitches of his hands. Martin had to hold back a giggle. He’d never seen Jon with such…abandon on his face. He wove his fingers deep into Jon’s hair, softly caressing the back of his head and murmuring small encouragements to him.

“You’re so good, you know.” Jon tilted his head back and swallowed, shuddering. Martin tried not to read too much into the shudder. He kept up the persistent gentleness, hoping that it was doing more than just comforting him. He wanted Jon comfortable, yes. But he also wanted him awake. Alive, and in love with the fact of it.

Judging from how Jon put one arm over his eyes to cover his face and the tantalizing way his mouth fell slightly open, Martin was doing a very good job.

One hand still cradling the back of his head, Martin trailed a finger along the side of Jon’s neck.

The effect was instantaneous. Jon gasped and buried his face deeper into the crook of his elbow, his free hand flailing until he found Martin’s sweater, which he pulled tight between his fingers.

“M-Martin—”

“Too much?” Martin pulled his hand away and set it on the couch.

“N-No, it’s, it’s just right.”

“But you won’t even look at me.” Martin didn’t mean to sound so petulant, but he would’ve given a lot to see the full picture of his archivist’s face just then.

Jon tried to get the words right in his head. Contact had always been hard for him. He wanted to be touched just as much as he recoiled from sex, but everyone seemed to think those two things were inherently connected. He was just so _sensitive,_ sensitive in ways that felt wrong and mismatched, the physical language of his body always mistranslated. 

But now it was simple. Martin’s fingers were heaven on his neck, and he wanted to go back to that place.

“I want you to keep going. Please.” 

“Just let me see your face. I need to know you’re not uncomfortable.”

“Martin, I’m not—” Jon gave a shaky laugh. Slowly, he lowered his arm from his face.

Martin saw, for the first time, how deeply Jon blushed when he was embarrassed.

It made him laugh. 

Jon, absolute repression machine that he was, couldn’t keep the reddest blush in the whole world from blooming across his face. 

“You’re laughing.”

“You’re _blushing._ ” The unrepentant awe in his voice only made Jon blush harder. 

“I _know._ ” He was breathless, the spot on his neck Martin had touched a few moments ago still tingling from the contact. “You’ve done something to me.”

“You’re…” Martin’s whisper trailed off as he took in the sight. Jon stared back at him, his whole face hot, a glow in his eyes that could’ve been either excitement or affection or fear. “You’re _otherworldly._ ” He sighed, his fingers ghosting Jon’s face. “You’re like nothing else I’ve ever seen.”

It would’ve been easier for Jon to contain himself if he looked away from Martin, but he didn’t want to. Jon wanted to keep looking at Martin’s face until those features of his were turned even softer by sleep. He wanted to look at Martin as he dreamt, his arms holding him safe, until he fell asleep, too. 

He wanted to look and look and _look_ until he was full from it. 

And somehow, he wanted to be looked at almost as much.

“I’ll keep touching you,” Martin said. Jon let out a low, shaky exhale and started to tilt his head back again. “But—”

Ah, that dreaded qualifier. 

“You’ll have to keep your hands away from your face.” Oh. Well. _Bossy,_ was he?

That suited Jon just fine. 

“You’ll have to give me somewhere to put my hands then. So I don’t forget.” He raised an eyebrow at him. He would’ve liked to smirk, but he was all but melted putty at that point, awash in expectation. He gave another sudden exhale as Martin pressed one of his hands to his waist and moved the other to the nape of his neck. 

“Are you ready?”

He kept looking at Martin as he slowly set his hand on Jon’s collarbone, his breath hitching as soon as he moved his fingers. He wanted to keep a little composure, a little of his self-image left intact, but Martin had that aching combination of firm and feather-touches down just right, and—

Well, fuck it.

He moaned. He couldn’t help it—Martin was just so—so _kind,_ and so _present._ Just so very _there_ —and the _circles_ his fingers made, the _loops,_ oh—

“ _Fuck,_ Martin.” Jon was dimly aware of how tightly he was pulling Martin’s hair, his own fingers scrambling to get a grasp on the world as it dissolved over and over into the sweetest confusion he’d ever felt. 

“Where else?” Martin rested his hands on Jon’s shoulders, panting slightly.

“What?” 

“Where—Can I touch you anywhere else?” 

“I—Yes. There’s—”

Jon gestured vaguely to his left side.

“Under my shirt. Only, i-if you want.” 

Martin positioned himself more securely on Jon’s lap. He rested his hands on the lip of his shirt, waiting.

“You’re very sensitive.”

“I-I know. I’ve always been self-conscious—”

“Don’t.” Martin tried for a moment to look stern, but his classic, soft smile shone through. “I love it. You _know_ I love it. So don’t even try to retreat back into yourself out of embarrassment, because I see you for who you are and I love every inch.” 

“You—”

“I do.”

 _I love_ you, Martin thought, but he knew better than to say it.

He slipped his hand under Jon’s shirt instead. 

Jon bit his lip as soon as he felt Martin’s hand on his waist, a soft hiss escaping his mouth despite his best efforts. He knew he should try to relax, and he wanted to, really, but it was just so hard sometimes to get out of his head.

And then Martin put a little pressure on those perfect, large hands of his. Jon was falling before he knew what had hit him, and Martin was right there, waiting.

The man Martin had loved from a distance for so long whimpered as his hand traveled slowly higher, paying reverent attention to the skin just above his hips. He carefully traced over his ribs, pulling away when Jon gasped and arched his back.

“I…i-it doesn’t mean—” Jon pressed Martin’s hand back in place, his chest heaving. 

“Keep going?”

Jon started to say yes, but Martin put a finger on his lips.

“Look at me when you say it,” Martin whispered. 

Jon, falling weakly into the warmest pool of affection and desperation, obliged. He gave Martin a look deep enough to make both of them swallow before stammering out the word, his voice starving. 

Oh, he was perfect. He was perfect—and he was _his._

Martin grew bolder, his fingers more confident. Jon was exactly where he wanted him: the bottom of his shirt bunched up, his fingers clinging helplessly to Martin’s collar. The look on his face somewhere between surprise and ecstasy.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think—

Jon let out a soft cry, the tension in his body peaking. He pressed Martin’s hand to his heart, the after shocks of something surely lovely rippling through his body. 

Jon sunk into the couch cushions, a serene smile on his face. He relaxed his hold on Martin’s hand.

The apartment was almost silent. A patter of footsteps outside; a door closing. The calm, blue air settled over the pair like a blanket. 

Martin kept his hand over Jon’s heart.

They might’ve stayed like that forever if not for the sudden sound of a child shrieking in the hallway, her parent scooping her up into a hug. Martin blinked, clearing his throat.

Jon opened his eyes and gave Martin a look steeped in bashfulness. 

Carefully, embarrassment enunciating his words far more than necessary, Martin broke the silence.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel…really, Martin, do you even have to ask?”

“Like, satisfied?”

Jon let out a low chuckle. 

“Yes, Martin. Warm. Complete.” He stretched, a cat-like smile playing on his lips. “You gave me something I’ve been wanting for a long time.” Martin mulled over the answer.

“So that’s what it’s like for you.” 

“Asexual is a good word. It doesn’t tell the whole story. I prefer the…the in-between, and—”

“Did you feel turned on? Sorry.” Martin winced. “That’s kind of an awkward question.”

“No, i-it’s alright. …yes? If I had to give it a name? But I don’t want more than—I don’t want it to _lead_ to the things that normally leads to. And…you?” 

Jon tried to keep his eyes fixed on Martin’s face when he asked that question.

“Oh! I’ll…probably need a moment in the…in the bathroom. I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.” He winced.

“Martin.”

“It’s just that you looked very _cute,_ and very _helpless_ —”

“Helpless? Really?” Jon could feel the blush coming back in full force. 

“Yeah, you sort of—fell apart when I—”

“And you like that.”

“Well…yeah.” 

“Hm.” Jon laughed softly to himself. “You’re full of surprises, Martin.” 

“Right. I guess I am.” Martin shifted, trying to delicately pull himself off Jon but floundering a little. “I’m just going to—”

“Take your moment. I’ll be here.” 

Jon balanced his face in his hand and watched Martin gently close the bathroom door. He shifted.

Christ, he’d probably need to ask Martin for a change of clothes.

* * *

“Y’know, there’s one thing I didn’t tell you.”

Jon curled up closer to Martin, settling his head against his arm.

“Mm, what’s that?”

“It’s—”

Martin tried again, but the words wouldn’t cooperate.

“Do you want to tell me?” 

“I do, I really, really do.”

“Do you need my help?”

“I’d rather do it by myself. I just need—” Martin took a breath to steady himself. Really, this was ridiculous. He’d just reduced Jon to a whimpering mess on his couch, and somehow he couldn’t ask if—

Martin had played the fantasies over in his mind until they were background noise. He’d planned a confession so flowery and poetic it stretched for minutes. He always stuttered in his rehearsals, running interference against himself.

When the time came, Martin used the simplest words he could. He raised his head. He looked directly at Jon, and he spoke.

“I think about kissing you. And I think about you kissing me.”

Jon tried to say something comprehensible—really, he did—but he couldn’t manage more than a small gasp for air. 

He reached for Martin’s hand and squeezed it. 

“Do you want…” Jon trailed off. He touched a finger to his lips, then mirrored the action on Martin’s face.

“You can ask, Jon.”

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

_“Yes.”_

Jon paused as if attempting to translate a particularly complicated Latin phrase.

“R-Right now?”

“Yes, silly, right n—”

Jon didn’t give him the chance to finish his sentence.

They found each other. Their foreheads touching, their lips parted. The distance between them shrinking until finally, _finally_ —

Jon held Martin’s face in his hand, a grin splitting his face.

“Oh.” Martin’s voice was rosy with joy, muted by disbelief. “Oh, you—you wanted it too.” 

“Yes.” Jon stroked Martin’s cheek with his thumb. “I’ve wanted…” He laughed at himself. “I can’t even say the words.” Jon dropped one hand to Martin’s collar, pulling him so close their lips almost touched.

“May I do it again?”

“Yes.”

Jon kissed Martin. He kissed him softly, then urgently, then softly again. He kissed him slowly, and cautiously, and then without any caution at all. He kissed the soft, round mouth he’d dreamt of kissing and found—yes, he could drown here quite easily. Jon kissed Martin. And Martin kissed him back. 

Martin smiled so hard he could barely return the kisses. He felt scrambled on the inside, but in a good way, like he’d been assembled in the wrong order and just now was getting fixed. Jon kept kissing him. And Martin, made messy by joy, kissed him back. 

When they broke for air, Martin was crying. He pressed Jon’s hand to his face and held it there, nuzzling his palm and breathing around his sobs. He felt himself being settled onto Jon’s shoulder. He could hear, as if from a distance, Jon telling him how much he’d missed him, how lucky he felt to be with him now. 

“I just can’t believe you want me.”

“Martin.”

“Can you tell me what it was like? Wanting me?”

“Well, I-I’m sure I won’t be as poetic as you, but—”

“Any words, Jon.” 

Jon sighed, a sort of acceptance of himself. 

“Sure.”

Martin listened to Jon breathe as he waited for the words to come, each breath like the pulse of a favorite star.

“It _hurt._ I could feel you growing away from me, and I wanted to reach out and grab you—at, at, almost any cost—but I didn’t. I could feel you growing into a person who felt more sure of himself. I didn’t want to stop you.”

Martin was torn by the desire to comfort Jon and the equally strong longing to hear him speak.

“I thought about you too, Martin.”

A pause like water filling a glass.

“I said your name to myself at night. Just a whisper. Like speaking a comfort into the room to ward away danger.”

A pause like a tremble on the surface.

“I thought about, oh, you know. The usual suspects.”

“Tell me.”

A pause like water overflowing. 

“Kissing your hand.”

Martin held out his hand. Jon, chuckling softly, brought it to his lips.

“Watching you read.”

He kissed each knuckle tenderly, hoping Martin was blushing but not daring to look.

“Watching you—just watching you, I guess. Looking at you. Not feeling like that was some sort of crime.”

“I like it when you look at me.”

“Do you? Well, you’d better get used to it. I’m very, very good at looking.”

“I know you are.” 

Jon yawned, the intensity of his exhaustion sudden and ill-timed. 

“Oh, sorry, Martin, I—”

“Sleep next to me. I’ll hold you.”

Jon raised his arms, admiring how much Martin’s t-shirt and shorts dwarfed him. 

“If you can find me, that is.”

“Oh, shut up.” Martin shoved him gently, the two of them laughing. Jon brought the shirtsleeve to his face and breathed in.

“Smells like you,” he said, rubbing the fabric on his cheek. 

“When did you get so _sentimental?_ ” 

“Oh, is that your job?”

“Yes!” Martin pouted, his fake annoyance breaking into a smile. “It _is_ my job!”

“What’s my job, then?”

“Ooooh, I’m the _Ar_ chivist, I like to make cute little ‘hm’s on official statements and stutter when I talk and make my favorite coworker go crazy—”

“Hey, now.”

“—go _crazy_ every time I see his face or hear one of his tapes or—”

“Martin.” 

“—or, or even just _think_ about him—”

“Martin, ask me for something.”

“What?”

“Something you want to hear. Anything.”

Martin considered his answer.

“Those things I make you feel…can you tell me one more of them?”

Jon put his head on the edge of the pillow, looking up at Martin. The lamp’s warm glow gave the appearance of a melted crown on his head. Hm. Fitting. 

“You make me feel…” He held the words on his tongue, savoring their heat. “…like I’ll never be lonely again.”


End file.
